


Paedagogy

by Memoriam



Category: Subspecies
Genre: Gen, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-17
Updated: 2008-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had hopes.  It was time to nurture them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paedagogy

Suffering aged most people, and she had proven to be no exception to that. But it wore most down, stealing away hope, drive, ambition; it seemed that Michelle had merely been worn away. She had lost the soft, girlish inquisitiveness—that _openness—_that had so captivated him at first; the strong bones of her face spoke instead of determination, of strength. The firm set of her jaw, the slight tension that even now tightened the outside corners of her eyes—they were more beautiful than he had ever dared to hope they might be.

 

He wondered what else might be revealed, as she sloughed away the person she'd thought she'd been. 

 

The pain that raved through him as he awkwardly swung his legs from the slab was almost enough to make him hiss. Everything hurt; even the Bloodstone had not proven panacea enough to cure his ills. Patience was a virtue he had learned at great cost; he assumed these torments would pass in time, as had all the varied others he'd suffered throughout the long nights... but some small part of him quailed at the persistence of the searing aches.

 

Though never confident enough to put the idea to the test himself, he had long suspected that his cranium being separated from his corpus would be no great impediment. And, indeed, that had played out much as he expected it to; but the dagger... ah, the dagger. It had been long and longer since he'd known true fear, and the site of the wound burned so fiercely at the memory of it that his fingers rose to brush his cheek, an attempt to reassure himself that the injury had healed. 

 

She had been glorious. It would have been a fine way to die; it would be even finer to live and see what became of the woman who dared to do such a thing.

 

He never doubted for an instant that it would be worth it—the thought never so much as crossed his mind—but he wondered if these little agonies were to be the price he paid for the privilege.

 

He wondered if, after all the centuries, he was finally getting old.

 

But there was little merit in such thoughts, and even less time for them. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself erect; made his legs bear his weight through sheer force of will. Even here, in the farthest depths of the crypts, the sun dragged at him like a weighted net, turning his limbs to lead and making the simplest gesture into an exercise of fierce determination. Yet though he knew she could not respond—could not know; would not be able to for decades, perhaps centuries—he could not resist turning to brush a tendril of dark hair away from her forehead.

 

It was better this way. He was in no mood for recriminations.

 

Grasping his midsection tightly in a futile effort to ease the discomfort, he shuffled painfully down the corridor. His minions were of no use to him while the sun rode the sky, requiring that he secrete it nearby even had its hiding place in the throne room not been discovered. Even though the jackals had used this very passage to invade his keep—his  _home—_ they had never thought to seek his treasure here.

 

Humans were so often squeamish about the wreckage that they would inevitably become.

 

He knelt awkwardly before the feet of the wizened, cobwebbed corpse that reigned in dessicated splendor upon its tomb; he had to fling a hand against a wall to keep from falling as his legs betrayed him. Steadying himself, he reached cautiously between its ankles, his long fingers searching delicately to keep it from tumbling down upon him. He had chosen this Vladislas as guardian because he seemed to recall that he had also been a Radu, one of the lowland cousins come up to smite the Bey; but now that he thought on it, he might have been a Timoteo, the second or the third. It had grown difficult to keep them distinct in his memory as the centuries had begun to mount.

 

Irrelevant thought; it became even more so when the tips of his talons finally brushed metal.

 

Carefully hooking a nail through one of the finials, he slowly withdrew his prize. The gold that entwined its base gleamed faintly to his eyes, even in the almost impenetrable darkness, but it was the centerpiece that was the true wonder. It might have been quartz, or chalcite, notable only for its decorations—until one peered into the swirling murk that was its heart. 

 

Not even Circe herself had been able to fathom the true nature of the Bloodstone. Perhaps it truly did drip the blood of all saints, Christ's last offer of friendship to the Vladislas and their ilk. Perhaps it was a piece of Satan's own soul, meant to advance his children in their duties.

 

What mattered was that it worked.

 

The temptation to partake of it himself was almost irresistible; he could practically feel the delicious rush of strength coursing through him, and longed for its aid in casting off the day's oppressive entanglements. But that would be for later, if at all. He had found its effects more potent than he had recalled—had it grown stronger? Had he grown more susceptible?—and, deluged with its influence, had not been able to take his more usual methodical view of certain issues.

 

He suspected that he had already made too many mistakes. Yet, while he had never found it to be true, it was still said that time healed all wounds; the one thing that he had never been without in abundance. Regardless, he needed his wits about him. Though he had never expected her to be an easy conquest—had wished, almost, for a true challenge, and suspected that he had finally found one—Michelle had proven far cannier than he would ever have credited a fledgling with being, and in several ways he could never have foreseen.

 

He still owed her what help he could give her.

 

He levered himself to his feet, clutching the Bloodstone tightly to his chest as he staggered for balance. He shambled back the way he had come, bracing himself against the walls when his desire for speed overtook his capability to move. For a long time, he had revered his daylight wakefulness for the gift that it was; but he had grown comfortable enough with it over the years that he chafed beneath its strictures. It galled him that such a simple task could be so great a strain; the fact that he was able to do it at all no longer humbled him.

 

Though he knew it impossible, it seemed as if stepping back into the chamber eased his suffering. Had he ever truly known a home, a place of ease and comfort, it was this very room; it soothed him. It was an irony that had always pleased him; his father had meant for him to be buried here, never truly understanding what he had spawned. Taking his rest here had been the only scant token of obedience he had been willing to offer, after the truth of the Vladislas dynastic ambitions had finally been revealed. 

 

She lay on the slab, unchanged and unmoving; he had expected nothing less, but after everything else she had managed to accomplish in such a short time, he would not have been shocked to find her stirring. Decades, he told himself; centuries. No matter how powerful an ally he was, no matter what advantages he allowed her, there were some things that could never be hurried. Not even for her.

 

Leaning against the cold, carved granite, he allowed himself a moment to admire her. Stefan's taste could not be counted among his numerous faults. So tall, and so well-made; none like her had ever walked the earth, the last time he had sought a bride. To find that such loveliness swaddled the iron core of will and the predatory swiftness of wit... she was beautiful. She would be beautiful forever. What remained to be seen was whether she would ever be able to embrace herself; if she could truly become the savage, brilliant queen that he longed for.

 

He had hopes. It was time to nurture them.

 

He brushed his fingers lightly over her lips, the tips of his claws catching the delicate flesh. A breath more pressure, the faintest quiver, and the skin would be pierced, permitting him to avail himself of the sweet exaltation of her blood. She was one of the finest vessels he had ever known, the mere taste of her intoxicating... and that was why he could not,  _must _ not. She would not thank him for his attentions, should she awaken to find herself their recipient. She teetered on a knife's edge, now; the well of her strength was not boundless, no matter how deep it seemed to run. He could not indulge himself at the cost of her sanity.

 

The Bloodstone was an eerie weight in his hand as he hefted it; he wondered if he would ever grow used to holding it. Though every moment was sharp and clear in his memory, the events of the past few days nevertheless seemed unreal. Everything he had ever wanted, had ever worked for had come to him, and more besides; it was strange to suddenly find himself almost without ambition. Even rage and hatred became companionable, when one nurtured them for as long as he had. He did not precisely mourn their loss, but he was slightly adrift with their passage. The Bloodstone and the woman before him were his new anchors.

 

The liquid stung his fingertip as he pressed it against the Bloodstone's tip; unnerving and enervating, not even the blood of the most powerful of sorcerers could compare. Now released from its crystalline prison, its very scent was overpowering, half-maddening; even against his skin he could feel its power, and reveled in the faint wash of relief it granted him. He wondered once again if this was wisdom; he knew in his heart that it was the only thing that could be done.

 

Her lips parted easily, even eagerly, and he knew a moment's tactile bliss as she began to lap at his offering. Raising the dead was only the least of the stone's powers; he thought coaxing even such an unwitting caress from his recalcitrant fledgling a much greater feat. He had shared little enough of the precious substance—scarcely a drop was needed—but her tongue sought it ardently, her mouth on his finger the closest to a kiss he might ever receive from her willingly.

 

Time. There would be time enough for everything.

 

That she craved the Bloodstone for herself was simple prudence on her part; but it dismayed him that she saw it only as a means to avoid hunting. He might have viewed her acceptance of her state as the credulous belief of a child, but she had  _seen _ her handmaidens; had chosen to battle them. She knew very well what the ravening, bestial hunger of the newly risen was, and had never seemed to wonder why she had never been possessed by it. 

 

It was an idea to be considered, and one he found himself pondering more and more often as she continually rejected his tutelage. A few nights in the grip of her more base instincts might provide an excellent basis for comparison the next time she thought to rail against the cruelty and monstrousness she accused him of; perhaps in sheltering her from some of the more grisly aspects of her new status, he had spoiled her. Not that she would ever believe it so, unless she were given direct evidence to the contrary. But the savage, animal state of  _need_ was something he had experienced too often to willingly inflict upon her. Her pride and her unswerving belief in her own righteousness were part of her charm; he did not wish to take them from her, unless it proved absolutely necessary.

 

It had simply been too long since he had attempted to live in the world. This all seemed a great tragedy to her; in her life of days and weeks, hours and minutes, she truly could not conceive of a time when faces and voices, no matter how dear, blurred together in the buzzing of gnats, and when names were beyond recognition, let alone recall. Such things were of little consequence when the centuries yawned before you; seconds only mattered when weighed against the fiery kiss of daylight. He could scarcely remember when things had been different; but for her, he would have to try, if only to explain things in ways she could understand.

 

For her, he thought he could. She was no mere slave to be brought to heel. The thought of breaking her was insupportable.

 

Her mouth had stilled. She lay frozen once more, so pale and fine that she might have been a carven effigy, had it not been for the rich drape of her clothes. She was breathtaking in her repose; she was nearly heart-breaking when roused to fury.

 

It was an effort to force himself to rise, but he managed, somehow. He could feel his limbs loosening as the sun dipped further beneath the horizon; she would rise soon, and he needed to conceal the Bloodstone once more. He intended to allow her a few moments' privacy when she awakened.

 

He needed to decide how best to enrage her.


End file.
